


Silly Little Set List

by skimmingthesurface



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Domestic Disputes, Gen, OTGW Spoilers, Post OTGW, Pre OTGW, brother bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The notes on the sheet music blurred together in a mess of black and white speckles the longer Wirt squinted at them. He’d only had the clarinet for a few months, and learning to read music was even harder than learning to read words. It was easier just to play things based on what he’d heard, but his dad didn’t like when he did that. Reading sheet music was the right way to learn how to play, he’d tell him. </p>
<p>"You will not be lazy with this instrument and cut corners just because guessing at the notes is easier."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silly Little Set List

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something that I wrote a while back that I'm finally happy with after a few touch-ups. I wanted to explore more behind Wirt's line: "No one wants to hear me play." The way he worded it just really struck a chord in me, and this was born. It's a bit of a pre-series fic, but also post-series for some of that character growth. Anyway, it isn't much, but I wanted to give you all something with Wirt playing clarinet and some of his interaction with his dad. 
> 
> I'm not putting this in "The Loveliest Lies of All" simply because it wasn't based off a prompt even though it is kind of short. Hope you guys enjoy!

The notes on the sheet music blurred together in a mess of black and white speckles the longer Wirt squinted at them. His lips still pursed around the mouthpiece, he spent a minute and a half making sure his fingers were in just the right positions on the upper and lower joints. It was difficult. The clarinet was a pretty big instrument and his hands were not so much.  


Taking a deep breath, the first grader tried to play “Mary had a Little Lamb” for the twelfth time that afternoon. It actually sounded kind of like a lamb bleating. In pain. Wirt winced, checking where the fingers of his right hand were once more. He tried again, actually sounding pretty okay, but his song was cut short by his bedroom door swinging open. Wirt flinched when it bounced off the springy thing that kept it from banging into the wall and almost dropped his clarinet.  


“Wirt, how many times do I have to tell you? Keep it down in here. I’m working.” A tall, scarecrow-like man loomed in the doorway, angular features stern as he stared down at him.  


“Sorry, Dad. I was only- uh…” Wirt shuffled his feet and glanced at the carpet. “I wanted to practice.”  


His dad sighed heavily and Wirt cringed at how burdened he sounded. “Can it wait? I’m preparing my notes for a conference call later tonight and I don’t need to deal with the racket you’re making on top of that.”  


Wirt clutched the clarinet tightly. Sure, it hadn’t been the prettiest of sounds when he messed up, but he hadn’t thought of it as a racket. Still, he didn’t want his dad angry with him.  


“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. He was really close to perfecting two songs in his music book. “Mary had a Little Lamb,” of course, and then the other one was “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Both classics. “When will you be done working?”  


His dad rubbed his face hard. He did that a lot when he was tired. Or annoyed. Things he seemed to be a lot of the time whenever Wirt was around. “I don’t know. It’s a big project, Wirt. The call may take an hour or two.”  


“Oh.” He looked down, then to the side, then back up at his dad. “When you’re done, can I play you the songs I’m learning?”  


“Wirt…”  


“Please?”  


“I’m very busy, Wirt. I don’t have time to listen to you play.”  


"It won't take long," Wirt pressed, then ducked his head when his dad frowned at him. "Just one song?"  


"One song?" he repeated, arching his eyebrow. "No, Wirt, I can't agree to _one_ song. One song will become two and then before you know it you've got an entire set list of silly, little nursery rhymes."  


Wirt lowered his gaze. "But they're not silly. They're hard."  


"Don't argue with me, young man," his dad warned him, then waited for him to nod obediently before continuing. "And if you think it's hard now, then maybe you should just give up. I didn't get you that clarinet and sign you up for lessons just so you could complain about how hard it is. Not everything in life comes easily and it's about time you learned that. Now, do you want me to take that clarinet back?"  


Wirt pressed his clarinet firmly against his chest as he leaned away from his dad's outstretched hand, shaking his head fervently. "No," he whispered.  


"Speak up, son. Don't mumble at me," he commanded.  


"No," he repeated a little louder.  


"'No' what?"  


"No, I want to keep my clarinet," he answered, cheeks growing warm as tears collected in the corners of his eyes.  


"Alright then. Study your sheet music. Maybe then you'll be able to play something worth listening to." He walked brusquely back into his bedroom, closing the door behind him to block out the rest of the world, his son along with it.  


Wirt gazed sadly at his instrument, then carefully set it on his bed. His fingers itched to hold it, to continue practicing because he was getting closer to being better, he really was. He glanced out his room at the closed door. He didn't want to make his dad more mad at him though. With a sigh, he turned his back on the clarinet. Maybe when his mom came home from work he could practice again, she always loved it when he played. Then again, she loved it whenever Wirt did anything. His dad, on the other hand, was much harder to please.  


He remembered when he first got the clarinet, a rental from the music store downtown. His dad had smiled at him and said to his mom, “Our boy’s going to be playing on a stage someday. Mark my words, he’s on the road to greatness. It’s in his blood.” Then he’d winked at him, like they shared a secret, just the two of them. Wirt had smiled so big it made his dad laugh and clap him on the shoulder.  


But so far he hadn’t seen any of that greatness his dad had been talking about. His dad didn’t either. He’d only had the clarinet for a few months, and learning to read music was even harder than learning to read words. It was easier just to play things based on what he’d heard, but his dad didn’t like when he did that. Reading sheet music was the right way to play, he’d tell him.  


"You will not be lazy with this instrument and cut corners just because guessing at the notes is easier. That's an insult to your art form."  


His mom called his dad "pretentious" whenever he said things like that, but he’d wave her off and remind her of how she just didn’t understand and to leave Wirt’s musical tutelage to someone who actually knew a flat from a sharp. Wirt couldn’t really keep track of what a flat or a sharp was either, but he never said anything because his mom’s face would become stony and her lips would become very thin and straight. Wirt knew it was always best to go to his room whenever his mom looked at his dad like that.  


Sometimes they’d fight, but most times they’d stay quiet. Wirt hated the quiet more, even if the fighting meant his dad would leave for a few days. When it was quiet, he could feel the way they thought mean things at each other in the air and their eyes would fixate on him so they wouldn’t have to look at each other. It made him feel like he had to pick a side, but he didn’t know whose side to pick, so he stayed quiet, too.  


With a sigh, Wirt sat down on the floor, his book of music open in his lap. He flipped through the songs, hoping there was something his dad might like better than the nursery rhymes. If he learned to play the songs his dad expected of him, then maybe he’d be proud again and happy and wouldn’t pick fights with his mom so much. Then they could both be happy and if they were happy, then Wirt would be happy and he wouldn’t have to worry about his dad leaving for longer than a few days. He wouldn’t have to worry that he would leave him behind.

-0-

“Wirt! Psst, Wirt! Hmm… I don’t know, Jason Funderberker… I think he’s sleeping. Wirt? Hey, Wirt, are you sleeping?”  


Wirt groaned and squinted against the light of his bedroom, his little brother taking it upon himself to block out the light with his face. Two insanely large eyes blinked at him, so close that he could see every fleck of green in the hazel irises. Then they got even closer.  


“Wirt? Are you sleeping still?”  


“What does it look like, Greg?” he mumbled into the pillow of his arms.  


“It looks like you’re sleeping. Except your eyes are open. Oh! Does that mean you’re awake now?”  


Wirt hummed in response. Slumped over at his table, he slowly figured out he’d fallen asleep in the middle of his… He lifted his head just enough to see that it was his World History text book that he’d drooled all over. Great. Wirt thumbed at the corners of his mouth, still very conscious of his younger brother’s stare.  


“What do you want, Greg?” he asked, rubbing his shoulders.  


“Huh?”  


Wirt rolled his eyes. “There was a point to you waking me up, wasn’t there? Did you need something?”  


Greg lit up. “Oh, yeah! Can you play us a song on your clarinet? Me and Jason Funderberker want to hear one!”  


“You didn’t have to wake me up just to hear a song. We’ve got plenty of tapes.” There was a small stack of them on his table as it was.  


He started to sort through them to find something Greg might like when he felt a tugging on his arm. “Because we want to listen to _you_ play,” he explained once he had Wirt’s attention. “I know you don’t like to play when I’m around, but you played the bassoon on the boat and I was there then, so will you play now?”  


It took Wirt a few seconds to get his mouth to work, taken aback by the request. “Oh, uh- yeah. Sure, Greg. I can play a couple songs for you.”  


“And for Jason Funderberker, too!” Greg held up their frog, making extra sure that he was right in Wirt’s face.  


“Right. For… Jason Funderberker, too.”  


He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, naming the frog that. Actually, that was a complete lie, of course he knew. It was the first name that popped into his head as his mind scrambled to keep Greg’s attention, to keep him awake whilst tangled in the roots of the Edelwood tree. Wirt cleared his throat awkwardly, getting up from his chair and sidling past Greg to nab his clarinet from the bed. In the aftermath of… well, everything, he’d thought the name would pass like all the others, but it had been two weeks and it didn’t seem to be going anywhere.  


Strangely enough, he didn’t really mind it as much as he thought he would.  


Wirt sat down on the edge of his bed, testing a couple of notes. A sour sound blared from the bell of the clarinet and he cringed. That was horrible. Really horrible. This was a dumb idea. He should just give Greg a cassette with professional musicians on it and send him on his way. No one should have to suffer through his playing if they didn’t have to.  


About to tell his little brother to do just that, Wirt hesitated when he looked over at him. Greg had cleared a spot on the floor for himself, amidst Wirt’s books and clothes strewn about the place, and sat crisscross applesauce with their frog cradled in his lap. His wide eyes stared at him expectantly, excited smile permanently fixed to his face.  


Right. Greg wanted to hear _him_ play. Wirt fidgeted, then took a couple of deep breaths so his heart would stop its frantic pulsing as his nerves rushed through his bloodstream like a lone raft careening through the rapids veining the foreboding mountain known as failure. Okay, yeah, poetry wasn’t helping him calm down at the moment.  


“So, uh... any requests?” he managed to ask.  


“You mean you’ll play whatever I ask you to?” Greg awed.  


Wirt snorted, the starry-eyed look in his brother’s eyes bringing him back down to earth. “Only if I know it.”  


“Can you play 'Mary had a Little Lamb?'”  


His reply was to play that very song with ease. It was one of the first he’d learned, of course he knew it. Greg still applauded loudly when he finished.  


“What about 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?'”  


For the next half hour or so, Wirt played whatever song Greg blurted out until the boy had run out of requests, happy to listen to songs he didn’t know that Wirt was able to play from memory, like “Simple Gifts” and “The Woodchopper’s Ball” and “Maple Leaf Rag.” He messed up a couple of time, each time flushing with embarrassment and almost stopped in the middle of the songs, but Greg didn’t even flinch at the wrong notes, having too much fun tapping out the beat on his knees or making Jason Funderberker dance along.  


To close the silly little set list, he played his own rendition of “Potatoes and Molasses” as a thank you to his brother and Greg stood up to give him a standing ovation. “That was _way_ better than listening through the door!” he told him, then elaborated when Wirt appeared confused. “When you practice, I sometimes sit in front of your door so I can hear it better.”  


“You do?”  


He tried so hard to make sure the door muffled any of the sounds, going as far as to stuff towels around the bottom of the door and calculating where he should stand in his room for the least amount of noise to carry to the rest of the house. Yet Greg purposefully got as close as he was allowed just to hear what Wirt thought no one wanted to be bothered with. His younger brother beamed at him, hopping onto the bed beside him.  


“Yeah. I told you. I like listening to you play.” Greg mimed holding a clarinet of his own. “Can you teach me how to play like you?”  


Wirt blinked. “Y-yeah. Probably.” He twisted off the mouthpiece to give it a quick cleaning, something he actually didn’t do as often as he should’ve, then handed the freshened clarinet to him. “Put you right hand here.” He curled Greg’s fingers around the upper joint, then did the same with his left on the lower joint. “And left here. Don’t drop it.”  


Greg was surprisingly gentle with it. Immediately he blew into the mouthpiece, then frowned at the noise it made. “How do I get it to sound like when you play?”  


“You’ve got to move your fingers. Like this.” Wirt took it back from him and played the opening bar of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” for him. “Watch my hands carefully, Greg. Then you can try.”  


After several demonstrations, Wirt walked him through the motions before letting him take a stab at it. The sounds Greg produced were grating and made Jason Funderberker hop out of the room. It was actually pretty funny. Wirt had to stifle a laugh when Greg pouted at the clarinet as if it had done him a serious disservice.  


“Aw. I’m not any good at this, am I, Wirt?” he lamented, brow furrowing in disappointment.  


That sobered up the older brother some. “Hey, you just started learning. It takes a lot of practice to play an instrument.”  


“But I can play the drums and I don’t ever practice.”  


He really couldn’t, but he’d figure that out on his own eventually. Maybe. At any rate it was a conversation for another day. “Well, the clarinet is an instrument that likes to be practiced with a lot.”  


Greg gazed at the clarinet with a new admiration. “Wow. I didn’t know that. You must practice a ton since you’re so good at it.”  


“Yeah, well…” Wirt glanced away and shrugged. “You know, I started when I was your age.”  


“Really?” Greg gave him a once-over, as if trying to imagine Wirt looking anything other than how he did right then. “ _You_ were six once?”  


“Yes, I was six once. And so was Mom and your dad and even Mrs. Daniels.” Wirt rolled his eyes and knocked his fist lightly on top of his brother’s head.  


Greg laughed and swatted Wirt’s hand away. “I don’t know. I just can’t see it, Wirt.”  


“Well, it’s true. Once upon a time, I was as little as you. And I couldn’t play the clarinet for beans back then, so there’s hope for you yet,” he told him, then leaned back to lay across his bed. “You just have to practice a little every day.”  


Clarinet still in hand, Greg scooted back on the bed to lie down beside him. “And you’ll teach me?”  


Wirt's brow furrowed. "I guess? If you want me to. I mean, your dad can always teach you, too. Probably way better than me.”  


“I want you to,” Greg replied, then offered him the clarinet. “Can you play again?”  


He tilted his head to observe his brother carefully, as if searching for the punchline but found nothing aside from open honesty. “Yeah? You really want me to?”  


“Yeah!”  


Wirt couldn’t help but smile as he took the instrument back. “Alright, then. Let’s go steal some of your dad’s music books and find some more songs to play.”  


Greg cheered, hopping off of the bed before grabbing onto Wirt’s hand to yank him up, too. He dragged him out of his room and down the hall, even though he would’ve followed him regardless. It was nice though, to be brought along on what had somehow become a perilous adventure in Greg’s mind. It was nice not to be left behind.


End file.
